


Vows

by Davechicken



Series: Kylux - Fluff & Angst [67]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8557447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Be careful of things said in jest, old married couple.





	

For something that started out as mostly a joke… things were now more serious than Kylo could remember anything being in his whole _life_ , to date, and that involved not one, but _two_ Force-Master betrayals and multiple mass genocide.

None of that was anything compared to The Day. Which - you know - if he’d never made the joke about them being an old, married couple… Hux might never have decided it Had To Happen.

Because it had gone from a tiny squabble about socks and the storage thereof, to an earnest little nose-wrinkle and questions about how it would work. Whose name(s) would they take, who could officiate, where would they register it, what would it mean for their titles and forms of address… would… Kylo even want to make that kind of a commitment?

Kylo had - of course - snorted that he’d made every other damn commitment, wasn’t this just a formality? They were practically married already and - oh shit. Hux’s face had fallen just slightly, and Kylo had realised he’d fucked up.

So he’d dropped to his knees and blurted out a hurried proposal, praising Hux beyond the stars and Force themselves, and begged him to allow their fates to be entwined and so on and so forth.

He’d meant every last word. He had. But he’d then set the tone for the rest of the engagement affair.

First they’d needed rings. Except then they didn’t need rings yet. Or did they? No. Yes. Maybe. Hux had pored over endless images, tried on samples, and declared he could only continue to work effectively with one (1) singular band. Which then had to be perfect. 

In the end, only metal ores from Arkanis fired with flecks of Tatooine sand had been adequate for the base, and then Hux had insisted they got the date of their official ‘getting together’ pricked into the pattern in abstract lines and dots. 

Kylo had been horrified to find out Hux knew to the quarter of the hour when they got together, but also he didn’t want to know what Hux defined as ‘it’, because if it was not what he thought, then Hux would be utterly betrayed by his lack of understanding. What if Hux thought they were dating half an hour before Kylo? Or the reverse? It was a minefield, and he side-stepped it deftly.

That. Was just. The rings.

The announcement to the Empire was the next thing, and Hux had written and re-written his speech about twenty-nine times before Kylo screamed at him that no one really cared.

(A mistake. One he spent the night on the doorstep for, begging for forgiveness. He might have punched the wall a few times, too.)

When the speech was finally done, Hux recorded it multiple times and Kylo went to get drunk. 

‘Let’s just get on a shuttle, fuck off into space, then get married in front of the stars and then fuck’ was also, apparently, Not De Rigeur. Not for the Emperor. Even if Kylo did wonder if he just hefted the man over his shoulder, would he object too much?  


No, the Emperor had to have the finest robes and flowing silks and light circlet and buttonholes of flowers. And his Husband-To-Be had to wear complementary clothing, with red-flashed black and stripes and swirls and tight, toe-crushingly neat black boots. 

Fine. Okay.

And the Emperor also needed to plan the meals out, and couldn’t just order the kitchen staff. _Oh. No_. There had to be the finest In Season meals, from the _very best chefs_ and they had to all be tasted beforehand, even if some of the dishes didn’t have the In Season ingredients in. 

Two vats, one of melted cheese and the other of chocolate, surrounded by sticks and bread, meat, fruit, or sweets was vetoed. Kylo figured as much, and ate the stupid little finger foods and wished he could just roast a freaking Rancor and throw some vegetables at the most annoying guests. 

The cake had a layer for every year they’d known one another. None of them were tart, even though they should have been. The whole thing was too big for anyone to ever try cutting, except with a lightsaber. It was going to be so big that his blood would curdle just looking at it. 

Yep. Hux loved it.

The flowers were the next thing, and _how could he ever know whether the tiny little bells were going to be lilac or the shade that was practically lilac but had some fancy schmancy name_. Unless they were side by side, Kylo wasn’t sure _anyone would tell_. Hux had to have extra sensors in his eyes or something.

All the flowers Kylo picked said ‘death’ or ‘murder’ or ‘blood’ or ‘incontinence’ or something in this Secret Flower Language known only to florists and Emperor Hux. His attempt to spell out ‘Can We Just Elope’ with petals he plucked from a big dial of a bloom did not go down well, but he was not allowed to escape because his husband-to-be was evil and wanted him to suffer and look at swatches.

Kylo didn’t even know swatches existed before. Now he did. He knew about swatches, and about the flower that said ‘I fucked your mother’ (or something along those lines), and the seventy-two types of dessert fork and the heraldic equivalent of ‘I’m Marrying The Force’. He became conversant in the multiple ways you could tie a bowtie, the different cuffs on a suit, and the proper forms of address for most galactic dignitaries who still lived and breathed.

He also knew which delegates couldn’t sit with which others. And which ones were steadfastly Anti-Meat, and which ones thought alcohol was a sin (it was not, it was a blessing, and he took it with wide-open arms). He knew which groups couldn’t be introduced to which others, which had to be acknowledged simultaneously by them and then swapped over between Kylo and Hux, to prevent a diplomatic incident. 

He also found out which of Hux’s living relatives needed to be alive Far, Far Away from Hux.

He knew the exact time and date of their planned exchange of vows, and when to stand, and when to kneel, and what songs to sing. He knew it all.

And it wasn’t until they stood, facing each other, in front of Anyone who was Anyone, that he realised he’d entirely forgotten to write any vows.

How? They’d worked out the precise timing needed for each of their vows, and what colour fireworks would go off, and who would cry, and when they’d kiss, and they’d - somehow - both of them forgotten to write anything to say.

Hux looked like the world was ending, his teeth bared in a rictus of a smile, a death-shroud falling over his face. 

Kylo grabbed for his hands, leaned in to kiss his cheek and whispered: “Wing it.”

And then proceeded to swear his undying love, fealty, admiration, respect, devotion, affection, adulation and more. A torrent of words from that place _he_ knew best - his emotional, quick-draw core. 

One of the fireworks went off early. Someone was stealing cheese on sticks. A relative started to cry.

Hux took one look at the slowly unravelling masterpiece, snorted, and grabbed Kylo by the shirt. 

“I love you, you moron,” he said, his eyes wet from tears about to fall. “Just bloody marry me, already.”  


Kylo picked his Emperor up - trying hard not to trip on the falling cloak - and waited for the officiant to nod and proclaim them a couple.

Hux buried his face in Kylo’s neck as he walked him to the head of the table, as the rest of the fireworks went off. Kylo felt his beloved husband bury into him, blushing like mad. “I’m sorry,” Hux mumbled.

“Don’t be,” Kylo insisted. “It was perfect.”  


It really, truly was.

(And better, soon they’d be on their honeymoon. And _that_ Kylo had planned.)


End file.
